


Old Dog, New Trick

by hotot



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossing Timelines, Divergent Timelines, Drinking, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Dubious Ethics, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, I promise i can fix this..., Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Institute Fuckery, Male-Female Friendship, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Deacon, Other, Post-Game(s), Reality Bending, Some Plot, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-10-15 05:46:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17523014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/pseuds/hotot
Summary: The Institute is nothing more than a flaming crater, synths are gaining more and more acceptance in the Commonwealth, and Deacon is back to his normal solo life after he stops working with Charmer. But when the dubious Railroad agent and his sketchy boyfriend roll into Goodneighbor with strange woman who claims to know Deacon better than most, his world gets turned upside down. Again.((Non-canon for any related fics, just an excuse for gratuitous angst...))





	1. Trace Decay

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fire & Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8285711) by [ghostofshe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofshe/pseuds/ghostofshe). 



> This is what happens when an accident drops Sole Survivor Jeanne into another Sole Survivor's timeline-- her pre-war best friend, Xavier... but he's possibly the only one to remember her. 
> 
> Which means Deacon doesn't remember her. Which means pretty much everyone is in for a world of hurt.
> 
> Yikes. 
> 
> NOTES: this is a collaboration between hotot and ghostofshe. I work on this solo some of the time, but any time Xavier or Vulpes appear, ghostofshe is writing right along with me. 
> 
> \- ghostofshe's sole survivor is Xavier (aka Charmer). He appears in the fantastic MSole/Vulpes story "Fire & Water" and you should totally go check it out. It has Gladiators and Feelings. Beautiful words: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8285711/chapters/18981743  
> \- My sole survivor is Jeanne (aka Saint, aka Fixer). She appears in the stupidly long "The Trick to This" (Deacon/FSole): https://archiveofourown.org/works/8930290/chapters/20453683
> 
> There are minor spoilers for Fire & Water throughout and major spoilers for Trick as of Chapter 3 so if you're planning to read either, be warned! You don't need to read em for to make sense though, at least that's the hope. This is NOT canon for Jeanne's story, just an indulgent AU. 
> 
> Also also, Deacon is transmasculine and nonbinary. There isn't going to be any gender angst, but if you'd like content warnings about anything trans-related, drop me a comment or an ask on Tumblr at probablyasynth and I will accommodate!

 

 

 

 

_If in the twilight of memory we should meet once more, we shall speak again together and you shall sing to me a deeper song._

_~Khalil Gibran_  
  
 

 

 

Charmer and Rat-Boy… _okay, Vulpes—_ Anyway, the two of them slink into the Third Rail like a couple of tired dogs, wild-eyed and wary. Deacon snorts to himself, his easy mood curdling at the sight of them.  

In their wake, close enough that she’s clearly with them, but lingering far enough back that she doesn't appear to be happy about it, trails a woman. She’s a little thing— Charmer has a foot on her—stocky build, caucasian, dark hair cropped into a severe, chin-length bob. Her complexion is ashy, her expression pinched. Deacon can see the dark circles under her eyes from across the room.

It’s party of three confirmed when Charmer twists back to look at her as she reaches the bottom of the stairs. His lips move: _want anything_?

The woman nods and Deacon reads the reply on her lips: _The usual._

As if Charmer knows exactly what her usual is. Weird. Maybe she's one of his raider friends. Hancock wouldn't like that, if he knew Charmer was bringing Nuka World denizens on a tour of Goodneighbor.

Vulpes slithers to the bar like he’s ashamed of himself for even thinking the word _alcohol_. He’ll probably be kneeling on tacks later, praying to Caesar while he confesses his degenerate sins.

The stranger stands behind them, scanning the room. Her eyes drink in the room like she’s casing the place for baddies. Which is smart, considering Deacon is here to keep an eye on some baddies himself. The L&L gang is kickin’ again, and Deacon’s on high alert. Funny enough, a tip-off from Charmer is what set him on his most recent trail.

Fucking slavers. Abducting Synths right under the Railroad's nose. Makes Deacon's skin crawl and his blood boil just thinking about it. He relaxes his fist from around the tumblr of whiskey before him.

He hates to admit it, but Charmer and his Colosseum are valuable assets. Access to a seedy underworld of chems and raiders without having to do deep cover? Makes Deacon’s life easier. It would have taken days or weeks for Deacon to get word from tourists that the L&L was kidnapping suspected synths again. But a gang rep had approached Charmer last week about selling some of them to fight in his death-pit and Charmer immediately sent word to the Railroad, and purchased the poor synths and set them free to boot. Did most of Deacon’s work for him and now Glory had then taken it upon herself to escort them up to Arcadia. They’ll be safer there.

The Commonwealth has gone bizzaro lately anyway. Thr L&L gang already back in action after being decimated by Xavier and… ugh… Vulpes not six months ago. Rumors of strange lights up north of Sanctuary Hills. Oh right, and that bigass explosion that rocked all of downtown Boston yesterday. Probably a Super Mutant with an oversized Fatman.  Deacon is going to have to look into that. Once he gets on top of the L&L.

Deacon’s L&L mark sits in the other corner with a few Goodneighbor locals with ties to Marowski, all drinking and cheming himself into a stupor. But the mark will have to stumble home some time, and when he does, Deacon’s gonna stumble along a half a block behind.

Seated at an out-of-the-way table with his back to the wall, Deacon bides his time, pretending to drink. Instead, he casually dribbles the whiskey into a rag on the table at regular intervals. He’s chain smoking for real, though, ashtray filling as his glass empties. Just put one out when Charmer and his crew arrived.

Deacon wonders how long it’s going to take Charmer and Vulpes to notice him. If they even will. Charmer’s attention to detail is a spectrum; from dead-to-the-word to ‘holy shit, how did you even _see_ that’ depending on his level of intoxication, and what he’s using. Deacon wonders where on the spectrum he is right now.

Deacon’s mark shifts, lurching to his feet, and he thinks maybe now’s a good time to slink out before the kids notice him. But the idiot stumbles to the bar and taps a big sausage finger for Whitechapel Charlie’s attention as the Mister Handy delivers the odd little trio their set of drinks.

Maybe now’s _still_ a good time to slip out. Won’t be hard to tail Sausage-Fingers even if he waits for him outside. But then he loses the chance to eavesdrop. See who else talks to the monolith. See if the guy can string more than three words together.

Deacon glances back towards Charmer and his gang. Yeah, he’d really rather _not_ deal with him or his rotten little boyfriend. The woman turns from the bar with her glass of rum as Deacon moves to gather his bag from beneath his feet. Her gaze falls on him and instead of sweeping past, she freezes. Her eyes go wide and she mouths his name. _Deacon._  

The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. Charmer must have mentioned him, or _something,_ which is _weird,_ but okay. Then the woman’s face breaks into a smile. Not just any smile, either. No one’s smiled at him like that since—well… He’s been through what feels like several several lifetimes and a handful of face-swaps since someone smiled at him the way Charmer’s friend is smiling at him. With joy. And… relief?

And she _knows his name._

She thrusts her drink at Charmer and Deacon’s eyes dart wildly as he tries to find a line of escape, but she’s at the table before he can get an angle on the best way out. Which means his only way out now is _under_ the table and he decides that he’s just going to have to talk his way out of it, because he does have _some_ dignity left. It’s not much dignity though, and he’d like to hang on to it. Especially if this lady is an associate of Charmer’s.

And then she’s around the table, throwing her arms around his neck and Deacon has to check himself so he doesn’t chuck her across the room and bolt.

“Hi, um—” is all he manages to say before she pulls back and... tries to kiss him. Okay, so she actually does kiss him, for just a moment, and then Deacon jumps back, trying to fend her off.

“Hey! Uh. I’m both totally flattered and completely accustomed to strangers throwing themselves at me,” he says, “But uh… hi? And have we met?”

“Knock it off,” she says. That look of joy slips, and Deacon’s gut slips along with it, down to the bottom of his boots. “ _Crisse,_ I’ve been so fucking worried about you…” She has an accent he’s never heard before. Slight, but present enough that he’d be able to pick her voice out in a crowd.

He shakes his head, completely at a loss. If she hadn’t come in with Charmer, she’d already be on the floor in a heap and he’d be out the door, but—

She strains against his grip on her shoulders and breathes his name like a question, her frown deepening. The woman searches his face, her eyes—a warm brown—darting from his glasses to his wig and back.

“Deacon… what’s the matter?” She shakes her head, a tiny back and forth of denial, like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. “It’s me... Why are you doing this?”

He clears his throat and looks past the woman he’s still holding by the shoulders. “Hey, Charmer!” he calls over to Charmer. Xavier. Whatever Deacon should call him now he's on the outs with the Railroad. He's watching on with a growing look of confusion.

Deacon clears his throat. Xavier isn't the only one staring. “You wanna join us? Pretty please?” His eyes dart back to the woman, who’s has gone from rapturous to… wow.  Deacon isn’t sure if there’s a more perfect word than _devastated._

Xavier exchanges a look with Vulpes, and then the pair of them saunter over to Deacon’s table.

“Figured you two would wanna be left alone for the reunion,” says Xavier. He swirls the ice in one of the drinks he’s holding.

Reunion? The needle in Deacon’s brain, already skipping, screeches to a halt.

The woman looks between Xavier and Deacon, her eyes going wide as she slides away from him on the bench. “You know _him_?” She points at Xavier. “And not me.”

“ _Reunion_?” Deacon says at the same time.

Xavier takes a sip of the wrong drink, frowns. Holds it back out towards the woman. She ignores him and falls back on the bench, staring at Deacon like she’s trying to read his thoughts. Which might be a bit difficult because his mind has gone utterly blank.

“You disappeared,” says the woman. Her eyes are kinda wet and it is kinda really freakin’ Deacon the fuck out. “We were undercover. Weird time things happening, Dez wanted us to look into it. And then there was that explosion. And then you disappeared. Or I did. And I found X. Our worlds are all mixed up, but—”

The white noise in Deacon’s brain manages to tune into a single word. “Explosion….” he echos. He was gonna get around to looking into that.

“It sounds crazy, I know, but…”

“Crazy.” _C’mon Dee, get it together._ He shakes himself, takes a deep breath. He needs to get the hell out of here. Away from this woman who knows Charmer and who evidently knows him, well enough that she can pick him out in a dim, crowded bar. Well enough to try and… kiss him?

Yeah, he should really go. He starts edging away, sliding down the bench away from the woman so he won’t have to brush past her on his way the hell out the door.

Xavier sinks into the chair on the opposite side of the table and sets down the woman’s drink. “Crazy doesn’t even cover this,” he knocks back the rest of his gin, slams that glass down as well. “Now I’m really starting to think I’ve lost it.”

“You don’t... know me.” She turns to Xavier, wide-eyed and Deacon senses her rising panic—nails digging into her palms, the rapid inhale-exhale of her breath. “Xavier… what if… Glory, or… Nick. What if no one knows me? I’m just stuck here.”

Xavier stares at her for a moment, blank. Like maybe he doesn’t know her either, after all. “Saint—” he takes a breath, like he’s not sure what to say. “Did— did you know Hancock? Maybe we should track him down…”

She nods, her face pale and drawn.

Deacon frowns as his brain latches on to another word. “Saint? Didn’t you have a friend named Saint, before the war? The one you had all those crazy stories about.”

Deacon apprises the woman with new eyes, taking in the little details that he’s sort of glossed over before. Like that she’s got curves that don’t belong on most folks in the Commonwealth. Or that she has really nice skin. Not weathered and leathery like your average wastelander. Though her face is scarred. Two faded lines marking her lower lip and her chin, and a newer, pinker one running from temple to jaw in a jagged line, half hidden by the severe bob of her straight, dark hair.

“I did— still do, I guess,” Xavier gestures towards the woman. “Suppose introductions are in order? Saint, Deacon. Deacon, Saint.”

The woman—Saint stares at Xavier, horrified. “I—” she chokes on the word as she looks at Deacon again and it’s _definitely_ tears making her eyes shine. “I’m going to go find Hancock.” She stands abruptly, not looking at any of them now. Xavier stumbles out of his chair and grasps for her elbow, trying to stop her in mid-retreat.

She breaks free with an expert twist of her arm. “Don’t, X.” She spits the warning and Deacon senses her coil up like a viper.

Xavier recoils, takes an awkward step back. Wavering like he’s unsure what to do with himself. Vulpes helps himself to his abandoned seat, apparently taking in the shitshow with some minimal interest. Little snake is probably trying to see how he can turn the situation to his advantage, though Deacon can’t see any angle here. Though if anyone can find a way to make a scenario about him, Vulpes can.

She stares at the three of them, the horror giving way to hurt and anger, and Deacon knows there’s no reason for it, but he feels a pang of guilt. And then she stabs a finger towards him, though her words remain pointed at Xavier.

“ _He_ ,” she says, “Was the only reason I made it this far. The person who was there… _Crisse de tabarnak,_ you have no idea what they did to--” She stutters to a stop mid sentence. Takes a deep breath, gathering herself. “So. I’m going to find Hancock. And I’m going to find out if _he_ knows me. Process of elimination.” She avoids looking at Deacon completely now. “Excuse me."

Deacon gazes blankly after her as she marches across the and vanishes up the stairs, her words tumbling around in his head. This has to be a joke. Some weird-ass prank gone too far.

 _Saint_. Xavier always had the craziest stories about her. A resistance fighter. That she was fierce. Took no shit. Gave… a _lot_ of shit. That he’d once seen her shoot a hostage point blank, threatened another prisoner because he was on the wrong side of the war. Xavier idolized her.

Deacon was always half convinced Saint was made up. Or a combination of people Xavier had known over the years. And yet, here she is. And for some bizarre-o reason, Saint knows him.

“That’s a good prank, Charmer. She’s very convincing. But… uh. A little much? On the joke? Enough to make a guy feel a little crazy?”

But when he turns back towards Xavier, he doesn’t appear to be laughing. Deacon’s not sure he’s ever seen him like this. Wide-eyed and distraught. Panicky, even.

Xavier wordlessly nudges Vulpes out of his seat, then collapses back into it. The worm slithers into the next chair over, frowning.

“Okay,” Deacon says. “It was worth a shot. Next option: is she a synth?”

Institute fuckery is always the next on his list when shit gets weird, but this seems like a very specific attack, especially since the Institute doesn’t _exist_ anymore. But many of its people are still out there. And Deacon is long, long overdue for a face swap.

To his dismay, Vulpes nods in agreement. “I have put forth this same assumption, more than once already.”

Xavier still shows no reaction. Appearing almost catatonic. It’s almost concerning, given how few chems he seems to be on.

Deacon ignores Vulpes. Suddenly not wanting to talk about his synth hypothesis if that’s who’s backing him up on it. “Charmer, she tried to _kiss_ me. No. She _did_ kiss me. I’m not really complaining, except… oh wait. Yes I am. That’s weird. _And_ she’s upset. Like. Wow. Really upset. Because I don’t know her.”

“She said—” Xavier clears his throat, fumbles through the inside pocket of his jacket. “She said you two were. Together. In her world, or her time. She knew an awful lot of shit that I doubt the Institute or their agents would know.” He withdraws an inhaler of jet, helps himself to a long huff. Eyes slipping shut for a moment as he does.

Deacon digs out his own favorite vice and lights up, taking a long slow drag on his cigarette. The first exhale helps soothe some of the jitters crawling through him. The next drag makes him relax his jaw.

He offers out his pack out of habit, and each of them accepts a cigarette. Xavier lets Vulpes light his up for him. His expression already lapsing from panicked to tweaked.

Just what Deacon needs. Same shit with Charmer, every fucking time. Though this whole lady who thinks they’re ‘together’ thing is new and _also_ unwelcome… But he does always have a way of bringing on a shitstorm. Deacon _really_ doesn't need this. He’s pretty done, actually, with Xavier and Vulpes.

Deacon glances up and swears. His mark is gone. Somehow the big bastard has managed to tip-toe the hell out of the Rail while Saint was trying to lay one on him.

“This has been really, really uncomfortable for everyone, I’m sure. So I’m just… gonna go. See, I’m _working_ right now.”

“What?” Xavier seems to snap out of his fugue for a moment, “No! We have to get this shit sorted out. Saint needs your help, Deac. In—whatever way. You can’t just fuckin’ bail.”

 _Bail._ As if Xavier has been the most _consistent_ of friends. Talking about _bailing_.

“Sorted? I really don’t know how I’m going to help sort this out. ‘Oh, sorry lady but I still don’t remember you. Nope, not now either.’” He pauses for dramatic effect. “‘Annnd nope. Not now either. But hey, let's hang out sometime!’”

“Jesus christ, Deac,” Xavier shakes his head. Takes a long drag of his smoke. “Look. You don’t— I know you and me. We’ve had our differences or whatever. But could you please just try to work with me here? For the sake of the nice lady who didn’t do you any wrong. Synth or otherwise?”

 _Differences. Or whatever._ At least Xavier's actually acknowledging that things are fucked up between them. Now, of all times. When he _wants_ something from Deacon. Of course.

Though Deacon has to admit that he should really try to figure out why this woman thinks that they were… what? _Together._ Xavier’s words. It just does not compute. It’s flattering, maybe. Okay, the way she’d looked at him when she’d spotted him from across the bar was _completely_ flattering. Or would be if it wasn’t many layers of creepy.

Deacon casts one more helpless look up the stairs. His mark is lumbering further and further away, and this situation is starting to loom larger and larger every moment. He should probably go.

But fuck it all. If someone’s fucking with him, he’s gotta know. And if some lady is sad that he’s not…. _Deacon_. That’s not on him. But...

“All right, geniuses. Any bright ideas?”

Xavier exhales a large plume of smoke, his brows drawn thoughtfully over his chem-black eyes. “Well, Saint probably had the right plan. Seeing if Hancock or anyone else knows her. That’d tell us something to start with. After that. Finding out what that explosion was that apparently caused all this might be an idea... Or not. Whatever.”

“What did you mean, when you said she knows more about me than the Institute would know?” There are so many plates spinning in his head that it’s hard to keep track of what is most disturbing about this whole situation. That someone he’s never met knows _anything_ about him is right up there though. Maybe right at the top.

“Well, she mentioned how you worked together, in the Railroad… Apparently you followed her around too. Like you did with me. Seems very much your M.O.”

“Great,” Deacon says. That’s embarrassing. Or would be, if it were true. “So everyone’s got Deacon figured out. Wow.” He holds up a finger. “She worked with the Railroad. You could have told her any of that. Try again?”

“I didn’t tell her anything, we were preoccupied with other topics until she mentioned your name.” Xavier snuffs out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Surprisingly, you are not the main focus of most of _my_ conversations.” Out of the corner of his eye, Deacon can see Vulpes smirk at that.

Deacon snorts, but doesn’t give Vulpes the satisfaction of glancing at him. “This has been _incredibly_ helpful,” Deacon says.

Xavier just shrugs.

 _God,_ how he’d ever harbored feelings for Xavier, Deacon can’t fathom. And how he wishes that Xavier didn’t know a damn thing about it. The shame bubbling up in him tastes like bile. Needy, pathetic…

And now Xavier’s _best friend_ is here. Alive. Two-hundred years later. Another de-thawed popsicle, presumably. And she _knows Deacon._ Sounds like maybe she’d been in Xavier's place, in another reality. In a reality where he was a hell of a lot luckier than he had been in this one. Presumably.

Deacon stands up. Glances at the drink on the table, the one Saint left behind. He snatches it up and tosses it back. Rum and nuka. Oversweet and somehow bitter. Her usual, apparently. He grabs his bag from under the table.

“Where’re you going?” Xavier sits upright, like he might try and stop him.

Deacon slings his bag across his shoulder. “Jesus christ. I’m gonna go find your friend.” He takes a breath and feels the fight go out of him. Deflating like a sad balloon. “Try and talk to her. Or something. Bound to be a more interesting conversation than the one we’re having right about now, anyway.”

“Let’s hope that’s true,” says Xavier. Smiling pleasantly up at him.

Deacon summons his most innocuous smile in return. But, as he climbs the stairs and passes Ham, he realizes that maybe he should have asked Xavier for some more specific advice. Like how the hell he’s supposed to talk to Saint. _What_ he should ask her. Subjects to avoid. How heavily armed he should be... Because right now he’s got a pipe pistol and a switchblade, and it doesn’t feel like quite enough in the face of her reputation.

But there’s no going back after his temper tantrum. So he’ll have to soldier on without Xavier’s input. Which, when he thinks about it, is for the best. Xaver's never really been one for good advice.

 

~~~

 

Deacon can’t find Saint on a first pass through Goodneighbor, which means she’s either taken off or gone to ground. At first he’s tempted to call it quits, scamper off with an ‘I tried my best’ sticker on his conscience.

But another part of him is curious. Because of course he would be fucking curious. Another pre-war relic, who had apparently been part of the Railroad. That’s enough to warrant some investigation. See if she has names, if anyone else might remember her. She’d already mentioned Glory…

She hasn’t checked into the Rexford. Over at the Statehouse Hancock said a woman stopped by but left quickly after asking a few questions. Short, dark hair and dark eyes. A little upset, but looked like she could take care of herself. But Hancock said he’d never seen her before.

Where would Deacon go, if he was questioning his entire reality?

_The Memory Den._

Before he can even get inside the old theater, Saint’s already leaving. At least his instincts are still good. And it tells him that she’s smart, thinking things through. Her face is set into a solid frown as she leaves the Den. She must still be chewing on what whatever she’s discovered inside.

He trails her as she heads towards the shops. Looking around like she’s lost.

And then a modulated voice calls out. “Jeannie, baby… Coming to see me?”

Saint spins, eyes wide, and Deacon draws back into the lee of the wall.  

“K-LEO? You know me?”

“Jeanne, I’d know you anywhere. Not easy to forget the girl who keeps selling me Fatmans.”

Jeannie? Of course her name’s not actually Saint, though Deacon can’t recall Xavier ever calling her anything else. More importantly, there’s someone who _knows her_ besides Xavier. Who isn’t exactly the most stable judge of reality—K-LEO’s regularly more credible.

Saint deflates, draping herself over the counter. “There’s some strange things happening to me. The people who should… know who I am. Don’t anymore.” She shakes her head.

Saint has _got_ to be a synth. With fucked up memories and all the disorientation, it’s the only real explanation. Maybe Amari would dish. If she’s a synth, she’s _definitely_ Deacon’s problem. The Railroad needs to be on this. Maybe the Institute jacked some of Xavier’s memories to create  her. But then why does she think Deacon was her… whatever they were. It’s all too convoluted. He needs more information.

“Listen, baby.” K-LEO croons, the customary pur deep in her voice modulators. “I remember the day you crawled back in from Pickman’s Gallery, all banged up. That _adorable_ young man with the funny teeth right in tow.”

“MacCready? Yeah. That was the day I met Deac—” She stops short, shakes her head.

Her next words are on a completely different subject from the one she’d started down. “So why doesn’t Hancock remember me?” Saint asks, her voice flat. The way she asks makes it sound like a rhetorical question.

His brain’s so fried he might tell you _anyone_ did that job. Though I do remember Xavier too. Always hanging about with some odd ones. You’re both as real as me, baby.”

Deacon swallows a snort. He isn’t certain what a _crispy biscuit_ is _,_ but one thing’s for sure—Hancock _definitely_ wouldn’t know.

“You remember both of us?”

“Of _course._ Maybe not at the same time, but there's no reason you can't both be true. You're right here.”

Saint sighs. “I thought I was done with these identity crises…” She pushes away from the counter. “Thanks K-LEO.”

“Stop by anytime. In any universe.”

She turns, eyes sweeping the courtyard. A pained look lingers on her features. Like she’s utterly lost. Poor kid. Deacon huffs at himself, shakes his shoulders, and steps into a stroll, as if he’s been walking along instead of peering around a corner like a creep.

She stops dead when she sees him, her eyes going wide. They stare at each other for a long moment, and he feels her hackles go up, not coiled like a snake as she’d been before, but like a hound in unfamiliar territory.

“Do you have a Geiger counter?” he says.

“Mine’s in the shop,” she says, automatic. Then she inhales sharply.

He should have expected her to know it, but it’s still a shock. Xavier could have told her the call-and-response, but he wouldn’t have… He's not that careless, right?

Right.

The frown she had been wearing upon leaving the Memory Den snaps back in place. “You’ve been following me.”

Deacon blinks behind his glasses, nonplussed. “Yeah.”

He scratches the back of his neck and then fishes a cigarette from his breast pocket. He offers her one but she shakes her head, her frown deepening. He shrugs and lights up.

“I don’t smoke,” she says, like he should already know that. He supposes if there was another Deacon out there who was close with this woman, he _would_ know.

“Did you hear anything interesting?” she asks.

“Uh. You’re pals with K-LEO. That’s cool.” He exhales in a plume of smoke, blue in the darkness.

Saint scoffs. “Gathering some data.”

He’s not sure if she’s stating what she’s been doing, or guessing at what he’s up to. Maybe both. So he nods, letting himself relax his shoulders a little, cracking his neck to shake out the creep of nervous tension.

Saint rocks back on her heels and crosses her arms, looking up at him. She’s short. Really short. Deacon has to have at least seven inches on her, and he’s no tall drink of water like Xavier. She searches his face. “What do you want?”

That’s a really good question.

“You know a lot about me, according to Charmer,” he says.

She nods, and avoids the question. “Charmer.” A little breath of a laugh. “That’s Xavier’s codename, then?” She huffs a little. “Of course it is.”

She knew Xavier before the war. Deacon hesitates, wondering how much of what he’s feeling is professional curiosity, and how much is personal fascination. It’s not a new thing for him to wonder, though. Work has always been personal.

“What was yours? Saint, right?”

“What _is_ mine,” she corrects him. “I’m still part of the Railroad, even if it’s not this one.” Deacon laughs at her presumption, that the Railroad would blindly trust a woman who dropped in from another universe, knowing _everything_ about them.

Something flits over her face for a moment and then that frown--a mask, Deacon thinks--settles back into place. “It’s Fixer. Saint is what Xavier calls me, from before the war.”

“I’ve heard some stories. Pretty wild ones. Made you out to be a real badass.”

“I’m sure,” she says. “You know Xavier. Always embellishing.”

Looking at her, with her stone-hard expression and scarred face, Deacon realizes that he actually wants to find out if it’s true or not. If she’s really the scary-ass revolutionary Xavier’s gushed about ever since Deacon started working with him.

“I’m sorry I’m not the person you’re looking for,” he says at last.

Her eyes burn into him. The scrutiny makes his guts squirm. He fiddles with his smoke, takes another drag.

“I’ll just have to keep looking,” she says.

They stare at each other a long moment, and then she starts forward and Deacon steps back with a lurch in his gut, thinking she’s going to throw herself at him again. Probably not for kissing this time.

Instead she brushes past him and he takes a shaky breath. She’s ten paces off when he makes a snap decision. It’s not his fault, and he doesn’t really believe it, but Xavier’s insistence echos in the back of his head, and she knew the call and response, and she’s got a fucking code name. It’s not his fault she’s missing someone who might not even exist, since Deacon can’t imagine himself with someone like her. Not some fierce eyed, capable woman who carries herself with dignity, even though she must be hurting. Her pain is not his fault, but he feels a little responsible, all the same. And if it’s Institute fuckery, somehow. If she’s a synth, adrift with memories imposed on her... Then yeah, maybe he _is_ responsible.

“Hey…!” he calls out. Not loud, just enough to carry to her. “Saint… Or Fixer. Or whatever. Can I help?”

She spins back to face him. Stares at him a moment and the mask slips, and then Deacon wonders if he’s made a mistake because she’s got a _look_ in her eyes again, a look that should be _earned_. A look that no one should never ever direct at him.

“Yeah,” she says after a moment, and he’s scared of what comes next. Some unreasonable demand, some sort of soul-bearing he’s in no way capable of doing— “Do you know Nick Valentine?”

Deacon frowns, feels like he was expecting an extra step at the bottom of a flight of stairs and found himself on flat ground. “Uh, sure. He’s kinda hard not to know.”

She nods. “Can you find him? Ask him if he knows a woman named Jeanne.”

“Sure, sure. And if he knows Jeanne?”

“Can you bring him to me? I have to go to the Institute with Xavier. Charmer. See if it’s still there.”

“I promise you,” Deacon says. “It’s not. Flaming crater in the ground. We nuked it.”

Saint shakes her head. “When was the last time you were there?”

“Uh. I occasionally go back to gloat over the crater of my mortal enemy. Mortal being the optimum word.”

“In my world, it’s still standing. We took it over…” She frowns, and Deacon can see her thinking. Secrets there, things that will give her away if she uses the wrong words. “Synths run it now. I need to see if it is. If I'm here, there may be other changes. But I also need to talk to Nick.”

Her carefully chosen words make Deacon gape. She really must be crazy, though she seems solid and confident, so assured.

“And if he doesn’t remember—” _you,_ he almost says— “Jeanne?”

“Then don’t worry about it. No need for further action.”

Deacon nods. An easy task. He almost feels like she’s handling him. “Can do, boss,” he says. What he used to call Xavier. Charmer. Back when he was Charmer’s Railroad handler.

It’s the wrong thing to say, because she flinches. “Bon,” she says. French for ‘good.’ Her accent must be French. Xavier had said she Canadian, like him. The weird French part way up north. Of course. Deacon’s got a good memory for stories. And he’s read a lot of Proust.

“How will we find you?"

“Check drop C5-1.”

She turns and leaves him standing in the middle of Goodneighbor with his mouth hanging open. She has dead drops memorized…

Her back disappears around the corner, and Deacon hisses as pain bites his fingers. His cigarette has burned down the the butt without him noticing. He drops it and snuffs it out with his toe, staring at the spot where Saint had vanished. And then he turns and slips through the front gate, satisfied that he doesn’t feel the need to check in, or say goodbye to Charmer.


	2. It's Alive or It's Dead

_In fact, the mere act of opening the box will determine the state of the cat, although in this case there were three determinate states the cat could be in: these being Alive, Dead, and Bloody Furious_.  
Terry Pratchett, __Lords and Ladies__

 

 

 

"Deacon. Haven’t seen you in a dog’s age.” Nick Valentine’s yellow corneas shine bright in the gloom of his office, echoing the arrow-pierced neon heart outside. Except Nick’s eyes are yellow and not red. Probably a good thing, Deacon thinks.

“Ah, yeah,” he says, casting around the cramped room. “Been busy not being around.”

Nick stands and offered him a chair, and Deacon takes it, leaning back and kicking his boots out in front of him. He scruffs a hand over his bare head, around the back of his neck, fingers kneading into the knots of tension that had appeared since the woman had crashed into his life.

“Well, you all have been doing good work. I can feel the winds of change,” Nick says. “We’re coming out of the shadows, and not getting murdered for it. No synths but me living openly in Diamond City yet, but the Slog’s a popular place to start homesteading. We’ve got natural allies in ghouls.”

“Yeah,” Deacon says. “Nothing like bigotry and oppression to bring people together.” A smirk steals across his face, but Nick nods sagely as if he’d spoken that universal truth in earnest.

Then the old synth steeples his hands on his desk. “So, what can I do you for? Got some official business?”

“Eh, I try to keep things off-book. You know how it is.”

“Right, right.”

Deacon hesitates for a moment longer that he would have liked to. A tell. And old dog like Nick can smell nerves from a mile away. “You know a woman named Jeanne?”

Nick’ looks blank for a moment. “ _Jeanne_?” Then he laughs. “Jeanne. That’s good, Deacon. What’s the punchline?”

Deacon frowns. “So you know her?”

“You could say that but it would be an understatement. Which you know. What’s… going on here? Did something happen to her?” Nick leans forward, hands gripping the edge of his desk. The sharp tips of the fingers on his metal hand make a soft scraping sound on the wood.

Deacon resists the urge to spout some, swallowing down the lie that this was some _other_ Jeanne. “She’s sort of okay? I don’t know. She wants to see you.”

“You don’t _know_ if she’s okay? I’m real confused her Deacon, because if something happened to Jeanne, you’d be right by her side. Wouldn’t be here scratchin’ your bald old head about it.”

Deacon takes a deep breath, exhales with the truth. “There’s something really freaking going on, Valentine. This lady just showed up with Charmer. Never seen her before in my life.  Said she knew me. That we were….” Faltering, he closes his eyes for a moment. “Together.”

“That’s an understatement. Attached at the hip. Partners.” Nick chuckles. “I’m not supposed to tell ya, but last week she asked me to walk her down the aisle if you two ever get hitched.”

Deacon’s eyes snap open, staring at Nick. So he was like… what. Some kind of _father figure_ to her? “You’re joking.”

“Nope, but you gotta be. I’m still waiting on that punchline.”

Deacon takes a deep breath as his stomach sinks to his knees. “For once I’m dead serious.” He blinks, his lips feel numb. “I’ve never seen her before in my life. But you know her. Do you know Charmer? Xavier, I mean.”

“You hit your head or something? Xavier and I were partners, did some cases together before he went full raider. Hear he’s come back to the sight of right, mostly. Still running that fighting pit though. Shame. He was a good kid.”

Deacon nods numbly. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah, that sounds right. Okay, okay. Cool. This is super weird. But cool.” So Nick remembers both Xavier and Saint. And he doesn’t think it’s weird. _At all._ Like K-LEO. Which is super weird.

“Can you tell me. What happened to the Institute?”

Nick blinks at him, the yellow glow snuffed out and then relit. Funny, giving a fully mechanical person the ability to blink. Deacon had never noticed the quirk before. Perhaps Nick only blinks to emote. Makes him more relateable. Body language and such.

“Well,” the old synth says slowly. “I--It’s... Now, ain’t that funny. It got blown up. Xavier and the Railroad went nuclear on it. But it’s still standing, too. Run by Curie and--say…” He takes a deep breath, another trapping of organic life. “You said you don’t know Jeanne? At all?”

Deacon can only shake his head as his mind races ahead of Nick’s explanation to one of several logical conclusions. Nick’s mind had also been tampered with, and Saint was a synth.

Or this was a really fucking elaborate joke that Deacon was really, really done with.

_Or._

Or she was actually from an alternate reality, which meant—

“Schrodinger's Institute,” Deacon mutters. “Which is it, Nick?”

Nick still frowns off into the the distance. “In my mind...It’s both. Xavier blew it up. Jeanne took it over.”

Deacon waved away the ambiguity. “Both, neither. It's weird shit. If we’re still operating from within the bounds reality as usual, it can really only be one. But memory’s funny like that. With memory, who the fuck knows what’s true. So, it’s alive or it’s dead.”

Nick stares at him like he’s never seen him before. “You really don’t know her?”

Deacon shakes his head. “But you do. Hancock doesn’t. K-LEO does. Xavier does, but… from before the war. Not after he got out of the vault. Apparently she showed up two days ago and they’re trying to figure out what happened.”

Nick looks stricken. “Two days ago, huh? Poor kid. She must be hurting. Without you.”  
  
“I’m getting that impression,” Deacon muttered. “Sounds like she wants to have a heart-to-heart with you, Valentine.”

 

~~~

 

As Deacon had suspected, the Institute was still an irradiated crater in the middle of Boston.  

The Institute, run by synths… Not a _bad_ dream, but even idle daydreaming could summon dozens of scenarios in which that could go very, very wrong.

Deacon stops short of the decimated blast zone as his geiger counter starts chirping, and Nick looks around. The molten core of the explosion burned for over three months, down in the heart of the former Institute. Now it’s nothing but ash and chunks of rubble and melted rebar jutting like claws from the wreckage.

“Looks like it’s dead,” Nick says. He’s frowning as he gazes around. “But I know it’s still here, in my head at least. Like I’ve lived two lives.” He chuckles. “Make that three. What’s one more Nick Valentine, right?”

Deacon knows how it is. A baker’s dozen of past lives all clamoring to claim realness. It’s admirable how easily Nick takes these sorts of identity crises in stride. Maybe that’s why Saint wants to talk to him.

“Would have been something, seeing a synth-run Institute,” Deacon muses. Nick makes an agreeable noise.

The Institute is dead. Which means that Deacon is certainly still in his own version of the Commonwealth. One mystery solved. But his task is only half done. He’d found Nick and confirmed that the old mechanical private eye knew Saint… _Jeanne_. Now he had a package to deliver.

“Guess I better go find Jeanne. Did she say where she’d be?”

“Left her in Goodneighbor, but they were coming here for the same reasons we are. Guess she wanted to see it with her own eyes.”

“Where’re they off to, then?”

“They left me a note. Be back in ten.”

Nick huffs again and finds a seat on the stairs. “Fine, fine. I got some diagnostics to run away.”

The dead drop points them northwest. Written in Railroad shorthand, but not Charmer’s lucid calligraphy, but a hand he’s never seen before, a tight, spiky scrawl that he has squint to make out.

 _In-_ scribble _a hole in th-_ scribble scribble. _M-_ scribble scribble _Re_ -scribble _Rocke-_ scribble. _Sanct-ry._

It’s signed with a dramatic, “F.” At least Deacon thinks that’s an F.

The hairs on his arms stand up. She knows his shorthand. And the F. Must be for Fixer. She’s got too many damn names. Deacon burns the note and he and Nick head towards Sanctuary. Re- Rocke- has got to be the Rocket.

Traveling with Nick is easy. The Detective prefers to avoid any sign of a fight. It’s a quick trek north-west, and by dusk Deacon catches sight of the Rocket as they come around the bend in the road.

The old gas station is crawling with bots, as ever. Xavier uses it as his workshop, a place to junk and rebuild robots. But things seem busier than usual. Xavier is nowhere in sight, and at first Deacon doesn't see the woman either. And then he spots a figure on the roof, halfway up a scaffold of a new structure going up on top of the main building. She’s supervising some of the bots unload corrugated metal.

One of the bots chirps an alarm as Deacon and Nick approach, and the sole human looks up from her work and peers down at them. It’s hard to see her expression from this distance but Deacon thinks he spots the flash of a smile before she vanishes. A few moments later she emerges from around the building.

“Nick!” That’s a definite smile, now. She wipes her hands on her jumpsuit as she strides forward, her eyes flickering towards Deacon, and her smile falters. “Thank you,” she says to him with a little nod, her eyes sad and serious.

Before Deacon can think of anything to say, Nick’s got her in a hug and then two of them vanish inside. Leaving Deacon standing there like an idiot.

“You’re welcome,” he mutters to no one, and turns away.

Deacon supposes he should just… go. Now. Away. He did her favor. She hasn’t asked for another one. Nick certainly doesn’t need his help getting home. He didn’t even need Deacon’s help getting to the Rocket. Not _really._ And yet his feet don’t seem to want to move. The robots buzz around him, oblivious to his struggle.

There’s a window ‘round the side of the Rocket he could lurk under. See if he can glean anything. He makes his way around the building, feeling a special kind of guilty, but--

Something taps Deacon’s shoulder and he jumps, spinning around with balled fists even as he takes a step backwards and his heart finds itself in his throat.

When he turns, he finds Xavier standing there, laughing to himself. “At ease, soldier.” Not an ounce of seriousness in his tone or posture.

 _Oh, I’m easy,_ Deacon wants to say. Would have said. If it was six months ago and he was still pining away for the grinning idiot before him. But all the flirt’s gone out of him, replaced mostly by fight, and sometimes by flight.

“Gonna get yourself accidentally punched, going around tapping poor innocent bystanders on the shoulder like that,” Deacon observes instead, shifting his weight back on one foot as his heart starts to descend back into its customary place in his chest. Still beating like a drum, though.

“Not with my catlike reflexes,” Xavier says, he peers over Deacon’s shoulder, towards the window. “Though in my experience people only get that jumpy when they’re doing something they shouldn’t be. Like eavesdropping, per se.”

“Eavesdropping?” Deacon clicks his tongue. “Why I never.”

“Never eh?” Xavier raises his eyebrows. “Glad that’s a lie, or else I’d have to question your spy abilities.”

Deacon suppresses a sigh, annoyed with himself that Charmer managed to sneak up on him, that he got caught. Better than the lady catching him, though.

“Yeah, we all know my spy skills are unquestionable. I’m so good I don’t _need_ to eavesdrop.”

“Uh huh,” Xavier fixes him with a dubious look. “Thanks, by the way. For bringing Nick down here. I know Saint was pretty eager to talk to him.”

“Eh.” Deacon shrugs. “It was only a _little_ out of my way. Might as well help, seeing as there’s not much else I can do for her.”

“Did you talk to her? That would be something.” Xavier reaches into his pocket, offers Deacon a smoke from his pack.

Deacon takes one and lights up. He falls back against the wall, kicks one leg over the other.

“Talk?” he asks in a blue gout of smoke, edging around the question. “About what?”

Xavier rolls his eyes and clicks at his lighter. “About anything, but mostly about your tragic one-sided timespace relationship…”

Deacon barks a laugh. It would be funny, if it wasn’t so… un-funny. But the way she’d studied him last night, when he’d apologized for being the wrong person. That was definitely not funny. Definitely tragic. For her, at least.

“We did a little,” he says. “Asked if I could help, she said to go get Nick if he remembered her, and he did, so. Ta-da.” He waves his hands, ash drifting from the ember of his cigarette. “Here we all are. Again.”

“She was more upset than I’ve ever seen her, after you left.” Xavier takes a long draw of his smoke, gives Deacon a sharp look, like it’s his fault. “Dunno what you said... but I sure did wonder.”

Deacon sputters. “Upset? Of _course_ she’s upset. I don’t think there’s much I could say to make it better. A hell of a lot to make it worse, but none of it was said last night.”

Xavier searches his face, rolling his cigarette between his fingers. “That sounds a bit defensive, Deac.”

“Hello? Have we met? My defense mechanisms have defense mechanisms.”

“Even you're not defensive for no reason,” Xavier shakes his head. “Look, I’m not trying to get involved in your business here. Just— tread carefully alright? You’ve got sway with Saint, don’t fuck with her head.”

Deacon looks at Xavier like he’s never seen him before. Who is this serious person, calling him out for fucking with someone’s head when Xavier himself is the king of carelessness? Deacon at least thinks things through before doing something stupid.

And he isn’t about to fuck with Saint. Fixer. _Whatever_ her name is. In fact, the best thing he can do for the poor woman is to leave her alone _._

“Having me _around_ is enough to fuck with her. I don’t even have to open my stupid mouth. _Christ_ , the way she looks at me. It’s…” he takes a shaky drag. “Best thing I can do for your friend is to avoid her.”

“Not right now, it isn’t,” Xavier drops his cigarette to the ground —only half diminished— and crushes it underfoot. “Think it’s gonna make her feel better to be avoided by the person she needs right now? Really?”

“I am _not_ the person she needs. That’s… that’s _other-Deacon._ Other-Deacon, who has apparently done _something_ right to be someone she needs. And the only reason I can believe that other-Deacon exists is because Nick Valentine _also_ remembers him, plus you and Fixer. Not to question your friend’s credibility or anything. So…” Deacon isn’t sure where he’s going with his rant, so he trails off, hoping Xavier will leave it in awkward silence so Deacon can be on his miserable way.

“You’re right,” Xavier raises his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “She needs to see _other_ \- _Deacon_ , but right now there’s just you. Which means this is your problem now whether you like it or not.” His smile is gone now, gaze flat. “So you’re gonna stay. Until Saint gets whatever it is she needs, or tells you to go. Talks to you or gets some kind of closure. After that, you’re welcome to go back to running away from your problems.”

Deacon’s eyes go wide, but he keeps his mouth from falling open. He’s never seen Xavier like this before. Not about Vulpes. Not about Preston. Or anyone.

Deacon could walk. Right now. Just walk away. That’s what his gut hollers at him to do. But Xavier is making it really difficult not to try and get the final word.

“If that’s how highly you think of me I can’t really fathom why you’d want me around at all. Doesn’t your friend deserve someone a little better?”

A heavy sigh. “You _are_ better… Think the two of you have something in common there. But, I’m not asking for you to go on a date, alright? Hell that’d be— weird. Just. Show some of your good side.”

Deacon snorts. “Every side is my good side,” he shoots back without thinking. Riffing again. Safe territory.

“Keep telling yourself that.” Xavier’s lips twitch.

Well, at least trying to be funny again gets Charmer to lighten up just a touch. Deacon prefers it when Xavier keeps to a light banter, dancing as far away as possible from anything real. Serious Xavier is… unnerving. Not in a scary way. Mostly just a _weird_ way.

Also slightly _mean._

“Fine. I’ll stay until she tells me to go. But it’s a bad idea. I’m telling you, it’s not healthy to have your alternate universe… ex… whatever! Hanging around while you try and sort through _being_ in said alternate universe.”

“Well, bad ideas have worked out pretty well for me in the past,” says Xavier, chuckling to himself. Like that’s funny. “I appreciate it though. Really, Deac.”

“Oh, look. Charmer’s all smiles again once he gets his way.” Deacon scowls, ignoring the screaming in his gut. The whole _run_ thing. “So what. I just… lurk?”

“Saint’s part of the Railroad, right? Maybe she can help you out. Helping people is kind of her thing. We call that _mutually beneficial_.”

“Ah, I’ve been meaning to look that one up in the dictionary. Thanks. Also, that is a _terrible_ idea. She’s not _in_ the Railroad, here.”

“So? The Railroad obviously still needs all the help we can get and Saint needs to keep busy. Trust me. She’s hell to be around otherwise. So she helps you out, and that helps her. Sounds like a pretty not-terrible idea to me.”

Deacon has a million reasons why that _is_ a terrible idea, but at this point it’s simply better to pretend Xavier’s won and then slink away in the night like any reasonable liar. “You make a really compelling argument and I am _definitely_ taking it under consideration. If you think it’ll help.”

“If you think _what_ will help?” A new voice snaps out whip-like and accusatory, and for the second time in ten minutes Deacon nearly jumps out of his skin. Saint must have a light tread because he whirls to find her staring between himself and Xavier, hands on her hips and a scowl creasing between her brows. Those bruise-dark circles still linger under her eyes, but there’s a spark in them that’s brighter than before, a bit of color in her cheeks. Maybe talking to Nick helped a bit.

Xavier clears his throat, apparently not startled by Saint’s sudden appearance. Probably saw her coming. Didn’t warn him.

“Oh, I was just telling Deacon it’d probably help if he considered taking on some new Railroad agents. Since I'm not _technically_ allowed to work out of HQ anymore…” he waves his hand.

“ _New_ ,” she says, and that hard-eyed glare fixes on Xavier. “I _saved_ the Railroad. If anything, this Railroad is the new thing. And—” she shakes her head,“ _why_ aren’t you allowed in? Aren’t you _Charmer._ ”

Xavier shifts slightly. Boots scraping over the pavement. “Taking a sabbatical.”

“Xavier here decided to play raider for a bit and got kicked out,” Deacon says.

Saint simply stares at Xavier for a long moment, eyes narrowing, but she doesn’t look surprised. Maybe she really _does_ know Xavier that well.

“Hey, I still help out _plenty_ . Anyway, Deacon here was just about to leave… _flee_ , if you will.” He gives Deacon a tight smile. Silently challenging.

“I’ll bet,” Saint says. The momentary reprieve Deacon had been granted when Xavier drew her eye vanishes, because she’s studying him with the same intensity, and he wonders if she’s got other talents besides being ultra-intimidating. Like maybe being able to read minds. Or pass heavenly judgement. Because he’s feeling slightly judged.

“Actually, I have a mission,” he says, dredging a crooked grin. “For you. Us. If you want it.”

He _did_ drop his lead back in Goodneighbor just for her. Work didn’t stop just because realities were colliding, after all. Especially when synths were being sold as slaves.

Her eyebrows fly skyward and she falters. And in that faltering Deacon sees a crack in that formidable armor. A flash of surprise and confusion as she steals a glance at Xavier. Almost a question.

Xavier grins back at her, genuine. Unlike the smile he’d offered Deacon. They’re sort of sweet, these two. Xavier had always gone on and on about Saint, how she was a force to be reckoned with, resolute and uncompromising.  And how they’d been close friends, after annexation. Deacon sees it now, the camaraderie between them, and he wonders how someone like Xavier could have ever ended up in the confidence of someone like Saint. Someone with principles. Someone with a backbone. Someone cares, but not only that. Someone who follows through.

“Anyway,” Xavier cuts through Deacon’s sputtering thoughts. “Guess I’ll leave you to it then,” he gives Deacon another long, _I’ll-kill-you_ look. All it’s missing is Xavier dragging his finger over his throat in a slicing motion. And _that’s_ weird too. The whole thing is weird, but Xavier. Being protective of someone. That’s a whole new ball of very unsettling wax.

Xavier offers a quick wave to Saint and starts off down the road, back towards Sanctuary. Deacon can’t really believe this bullshit, though he should. Coming from Xavier.

“So what’s the mission?” Saint asks.

He tries not to size her up for the ninth time since he’s met her, wondering what kind of bullshit she’s likely to enjoy getting up to. Work-related bullshit.

“So…” Deacon says, shoving his hands in his pocket. “You have problems with the L&L gang back in your reality?”

Saint nods slowly, eyeing him with suspicion. “They pop up from time to time. Like weeds.”

“Well, they’re popping up like daisies right now. Tried to sell some synths to Charmer for his death-pit.”

Her eyes widen. “ _What?"_

Deacon holds up his hands. “Wow that sounded bad. Charms might be mixed up with some unsavory folks, but he’s got some integrity left. He tips us off when shit like that happens. That Colosseum racket he’s got going on is useful sometimes.” Fixer nods uncertainty, looking thoughtful.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Deacon says with a sigh, “I was trailing a guy when you and Charmer showed up on the scene at the Third Rail. I gotta try and pick up that lead again. What d'ya say?”

“Sounds fine. Where do we start?”

She’s tough, he’ll give her that. Lost a partner, only to find out he’s here--just the wrong version of him, and here she is, braced against the heartbreak. And ready to work. Xavier said she needs to be kept busy.

“I don’t relish spending more time in the Third Rail. My mark said something about Easy City Downs the other night though… How’s your gangster impression?”

Fixer shrugs. “Almost as good as yours.” Her gaze lingers on him for a moment and she favors him with a fleeting smirk.

Deacon feels his ears grow hot. She’s got a great smile. Completely lights up her face. He realizes she probably knows what he looks like naked. And not in a just-did-a-costume-change kinda way. She probably knows he’s got a collection of flora-patterned fabric packers. _That’s_ disquieting. And slightly fascinating. And not for the first time but hopefully the last, he thinks that this other-Deacon is a lucky fucking bastard.  

Quick as it came, her smirk disappears. Her head tilts to the side, imploring. “Where's Glory? Nic and Xav haven't seen her in months.”

Deacon shrugs. "Off doing Glory stuff." 

Fixer has that look again, the jut of her jaw broken with the slightest tremble. "Send her a message. She'll come if she remembers me."

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, not canon to the Trick-verse. If you're reading, imagine that things are happily ever after in Jeanne's timeline. I promise I already know the ending to this so don't fear a tragedy.


End file.
